The _corial's_ flight was checked as by a giant's hand. The shell
swerved sickeningly; there was an oddly metallic splintering; it
quivered; shot ahead. Dizzily I picked myself up and looked behind.
The Shadow had fallen--but too late, a bare instant too late. And
shrinking as we fled from it, still it seemed to strain like some
fettered Afrit from Eblis, throbbing with wrath, seeking with every
malign power it possessed to break its bonds and pursue. Not until
long after were we to know that it had been the dying hand of Serku,
groping out of oblivion, that had cast it after us as a fowler upon an
escaping bird.
"Snappy work, Rador!" It was Larry speaking. "But they cut the end
off your bus all right!"
A full quarter of the hindward whorl was gone, sliced off cleanly.
Rador noted it with anxious eyes.
"That is bad," he said, "but not too bad perhaps. All depends upon
how closely Lugur and his men can follow us."
He raised a hand to O'Keefe in salute.
"But to you, _Larree_, I owe my life--not even the _Keth_ could have
been as swift to save me as that death flame of yours--friend!"
The Irishman waved an airy hand.
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